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HARK, HARK! THE LARK

From Cymbeline

HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise! 1623.

William Shakespeare.

I

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO

HIS LOVE

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

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A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

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A belt of straw and ivy-buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures ma

thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

20

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my Love. 1599-1600.

Cliristopher Marlowe.

24

II

HER REPLY

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

4

My Lady's Tears
But Time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

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12

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither-soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

16

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-
All those in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.

20

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move

To live with thee and be thy Love. 1599-1600.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

24

MY LADY'S TEARS

From John Dowland's Second Book of Songs or Airs

I saw my Lady weep,
And Sorrow proud to be advanced so
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.

Her face was full of woe;

But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

6

Sorrow was there made fair,
And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:

She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so swee a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love. 12

O fairer than aught else
The world can show, leave off in time to grieve !
Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:

Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow !
1600.

Anonymous.

18

WEEP YOU NO MORE, SAD

FOUNTAINS

From John Dowland's Third and Last Book of

Songs or Airs

WEEP you no more, sad fountains;

What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains

Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my sun's heavenly eyes

View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping

Wooing Song
Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling,

When fair at even he sets ?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes !

Melt not in weeping,

While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping

Anonymous.

18

1603.

WOOING SONG

Love is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows:
Love doth make the Heav'ns to move,
And the Sun doth burn in love:
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild:
Love no med'cine can appease,
He burns the fishes in the seas:
Not all the skill his ounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leavy coat to wear,
While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play:

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